


Fall Leaves Flowers

by CoralFlowerDaylight (CoralFlower)



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Breakfast in Bed, Deceit Sanders Has a Different Name, Gay Logic | Logan Sanders, Hanahaki Disease, Happy Ending, Logic | Logan Sanders-centric, Love Confessions, Love Poems, M/M, POV Logan Sanders, POV Second Person, Surgeon Anxiety | Virgil Sanders, Teacher Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders, Teacher Logic | Logan Sanders, its cecil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-07-19 02:42:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19966723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoralFlower/pseuds/CoralFlowerDaylight
Summary: (i broke half a million words with this fic...)"I know, Logan," Roman says, putting his hand over yours and holding it there, against his face. "I know it feels like the flowers are back. I thought so too a few times after my surgery. Your brain is lying to you, alright? It's just... in denial about being okay now.""I wasn't talking about a physical feeling," you whisper, averting your eyes so you don't have to see his reaction."What?" he says."I think I'm in love again," you say, and it feels like someone else is saying the words, like someone else's fingers twitch on Roman's cheeks in response to his gasp.





	Fall Leaves Flowers

**Author's Note:**

> Hanahaki Disease is a made up disease used primarily for angsty fanfiction. If you're squicked or triggered by the thought of plants growing inside your body, you shouldn't read this story. Also, warning for emetophobia and mentions of surgery.
> 
> [Here's a link to the fanlore page on Hanahaki Disease for those of you who don't already know what it is.](https://fanlore.org/wiki/Hanahaki_Disease)
> 
> **Warnings** : brief mentions of hospitals and surgery (no scenes take place in a hospital or near a doctor), mild emetophobia (v*miting), brief snake mentions, food, a scene where a character can't breathe
> 
>  **If there's a word or phrase (or anything uncommon) that triggers you, let me know, and I'll tell you if this fic contains your trigger!** You can find me on [tumblr](http://coralflower-ao3.tumblr.com/) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/coralflower_ao3?s=09) (It might take me a while to respond on twitter), or just leave a comment asking.
> 
> This fic is in 2nd person from Logan's point of view, meaning "you" are Logan. It is not a reader insert, this is just my writing style.
> 
> i wrote and proofread this in less than a day so i have _no_ idea how good it is. we were talking about hanahaki in the fanders server and my writer brain went "lets do this instead, screw your novel"

It takes a while, staring at the water, at the petals floating on the surface, at the light shining off the gentle ripples, for you to fully come to terms with what is going on. You breathe in roughly and then out. Your knees ache. Everything feels red, intense, fragile. A weak cough bubbles up your throat and spills from your mouth with a retching sound, and two more rose petals flutter out of your mouth and into the toilet.

You can feel them. The tickle in your throat that's been bothering you for weeks must be a response to the petals in your lungs. You wonder how long they've been growing, and then you wonder why, and the answer comes to you immediately.

_Patton._

It progresses slowly. You try to hide it for a few days and then give up, keeping a tissue box tucked under your arm during all your lectures. One student has the bravery (and tactlessness) to come up to you after class and ask about the petals instead of the homework.

_Mr. Berry, I was just wondering-- are you alright?_

Of course you're alright. You tell the student so.

You aren't alright. It's none of their business.

You make a doctor's appointment.

One month later, you leave the hospital and breathe in the crisp fall air. You do not feel empty, and you do not feel broken. You simply feel relieved that you are still alive, that your lungs are intact, and that you can breathe easy again. 

Patton drives you home. There's a moment when he looks at you and forgets to hide anything, and in that moment you can see pain, regret, fear. You smile at him and pull him into a hug, thinking about the way sunlight shines off his hair and about the way he smiles when he's about to make a pun. It no longer aches to think about those things. You care about him, certainly, but you no longer love him. The sensation is strange.

"It's okay," you tell him. "I truly do feel better."

* * *

The English department gets a new professor. Roman Prince is eccentric. You meet him for the first time in the science building. He's kneeling down to the floor and peering at a snake in one of the display tanks.

"Hello," you say, and he looks up. He narrows his eyes, thinking, and then grins.

He stands, extending a hand for you to shake. His grip is firm. His eyes are bright.

"You are like me!" he says excitedly, gesturing between the two of you with his left hand, and you cock your head to the side just enough to invite more detail. "Ah--" he falters, and bites his lip, letting go of your hand, letting his hand drop to his side, limp. "Well. Forgive me, I forget about tact sometimes. It's just that I can see it in your eyes, ah...?"

"Logan Berry," you supply, curious about what's in your eyes.

"Right, Logan, I can see it in your eyes. That-- well-- no use dancing around the issue. You've had the surgery too. Recently."

You nod.

"Yes," you say, a little apprehensive. "Please don't apologise. I'm growing weary of apologies."

Roman throws his head back and laughs with his whole body.

"You're going to be exhausted by the time you've had as much recovery time as I, then," he says. "I've been _incomplete_ since I was fifteen."

Your jaw drops, and you only barely manage to hold back the reflexive apology that tries to leave your mouth like one last stray petal.

"Wow," you say.

"Right?" Roman says, eyes twinkling. He crosses his arms and shakes his head with a nostalgic look on his face. "I fell in love with William Shakespeare, like an idiot. Oh! I'm Roman, by the way, Roman--"

"Prince," you say. "I know. You're the new English professor."

"Right," Roman says. "Well-- Logan, I'll see you around. Maybe we can grab a coffee sometime?"

"I'd like that," you say. "I must admit, I'm curious how you managed to fall in love with a dead man."

Roman laughs again, throwing his whole body into it. You forget to breathe for a moment, and then--

You are on your knees, and they ache, and you are coughing. There's an arm around your shoulders. 

"It's alright," Roman is saying. "It's okay, this is normal, just let it happen. The coughing will stop soon, don't worry."

You grit your teeth, and gasp for air. It feels like there is something in your throat, like you _must_ be dying, but-- Roman is right, because the feeling does subside. And then you just feel empty and so, so cold.

"What was that," you say, monotone, and you feel Roman wince.

"They didn't warn you? That just happens sometimes. It's a side effect of taking the flowers out, instead of having them wither away naturally with requited love. They're gone, but your brain hasn't quite gotten the memo. It thinks there's still something there to cough up."

"How often will it happen?" you choke out. Your throat feels raw.

"About daily for a few years," Roman says. "Or that's how it was for me, anyway. It only happens twice a week now, though, so there's that."

You turn to face him, horrified.

"Hey!" he says, grinning weakly. "At least we're alive!"

But you see it on his face. You see what he isn't saying: _This is horrible. It isn't fine, but no one else understands, and that is why we tell them it is okay, because we will do anything to make them stop apologising._

"We are alive," you say solemnly. A grad student leaves the reptile office with a snake, and stops short seeing the two of you huddled together on the floor. It's awkward for a moment, and then the student smiles.

"Professor Berry!" he says. "Congrats on the surgery!"

It's so unexpected that you start laughing, and the student-- Cecil Moore, you think his name is-- looks quite smug. Roman is chuckling as well, and as he gets to his feet and dusts himself off (holding out a hand to you), he says,

"Are you sure you don't want to be an English major? It's never too late to switch."

"I already am an English major," Cecil says. You take Roman's hand, and he pulls you to your feet. "I'm minoring in ecology."

"Wow! Cool," Roman says. "Maybe I'll see you in class? I'm Roman Prince."

"I have a class with you this semester," Cecil says. "I'm Cecil. Good seeing you alive, Chosen One."

He nods at you, and you nod back. Cecil goes back into the reptile office, and Roman grins at you.

"Chosen One?" he asks, and you roll your eyes.

"It's a pun on my name. Berry Potter, or something, you can ask Cecil if you want the details."

"He seems like a handful," Roman says, and you shrug.

"He's a hard worker when he deems something worth the trouble," you say. "He's fun to have in class."

"Right," Roman says. He checks his watch. "Ah! I have to get going, urgent meeting with this guy whose dog I pet every morning-- but I'm holding you to that coffee!"

"Good," you find yourself saying. Roman waves at you as he leaves.

* * *

Coffee with Roman is like a tablespoon of oily springtime dropped into the water of fall; it doesn't mix. The times you see him don't connect to the memories on either side. Instead, they stand out like a diamond in gravel. Roman makes your chest feel tight, and it would make you nervous if you didn't have the utmost faith in the surgeons who removed the roses from your lungs.

You will never be heartsick again, because you will never fall in love again.

You keep meeting him for coffee all through winter, and then all through spring, and then summer, and then it is fall again and every single moment you spend with him sticks out like a loose floorboard. He's become a very close friend, one who doesn't look at you with pity or sadness the way Patton does, and that is something you desperately need. You are grateful to have someone who understands.

* * *

"Your eyes do this shiny thing sometimes," Roman says to you one day, after presenting you with a scarf in alternating stripes of blue and red because he noticed yours had gone missing. He is sitting beside you on a bench outside the science building. It is evening, and it is growing chilly. "When you talk about something you love-- oh, you know what I mean."

He waves a hand, knowing you're about to object to his use of the word _love_.

"Would it really kill you to be more precise?"

"Of course not," Roman says. "Though I have a feeling that the literal meaning of your question didn't match up _precisely_ with the intended meaning, now did it, Logan."

"Point taken," you say.

"Anyway, they do this shiny thing, it reminds me of the sun, or dewdrops, or gold leaf. You know?"

"Like your hair in the light from the coffeeshop window each morning," you say. Meeting Roman for coffee _every_ morning is a fairly recent development, and it feels nice to be able to acknowledge it out loud.

"Oh!" Roman says, eyes wide, mouth open, and you mentally review what you've said to figure out the problem.

You flush, and look away.

"Or something like that," you murmur. Something moves in your peripheral vision, and you turn your face back towards him to see that he has reached out. His hand is so close to your face that you could lean just slightly and let him touch you, and--

You cover your mouth with your hand and double over, because your brain has selected that exact moment to try and hack up something that is no longer there.

"Oh dear," Roman says, as coughing wracks your body. "Are you--"

" _There's something growing in my lungs_ ," you say, utterly certain that it's true. You feel the rattling strangeness of each breath, just like you did a few weeks before you coughed up the first petal.

"Logan, that's impossible, remember? You're fine, you're going to be alright, I know it feels like--"

"No, this is _different_ ," you say, grabbing onto the edge of the bench and squeezing so hard your knuckles hurt. "It-- you remember the way it flutters inside as you breathe?"

"To be honest, I don't," Roman says. "It was years ago for me. Logan, I know it's scary, but just... try to calm down, okay? You're alright. There's nothing growing inside you, you're going to be fine."

You shake your head.

"This is not-- Roman, this is-- oh, I _feel_ it, Roman, it's horrible, I want it _out_."

Roman takes your hand, and you go still, staring down at your hands, at the way his mittened hands steady yours, which are shaking.

"It's out," he says quietly, lifting one hand to your face to gently tilt your chin up. You make eye contact, and everything hits you at once as he speaks, "They took it out, Logan, it is gone, it cannot hurt you any longer. Alright?"

Something is stirring in your blood, making you feel warmed from the inside like a lava lamp. You tug your hands out of his grip and reach up to touch his face. You aren't wearing gloves, so you can feel the warmth of his skin beneath your fingertips.

"They must have missed some," you say, no longer panicking, now just full of dread. "Because I feel--"

You cut yourself off, because telling him what you feel for him would only end in disaster. Would only make him uncomfortable.

"I know, Logan," Roman says, putting his hand over yours and holding it there, against his face. "I know it feels like the flowers are back. I thought so too a few times after my surgery. Your brain is lying to you, alright? It's just... in denial about being okay now."

"I wasn't talking about a physical feeling," you whisper, averting your eyes so you don't have to see his reaction. 

"What?" he says.

"I think I'm in love again," you say, and it feels like someone else is saying the words, like someone else's fingers twitch on Roman's cheeks in response to his gasp.

"Tell me about this person," he says, and you sigh forlornly.

"He's beautiful," you say. "Everything he says is just beautiful. He makes me glad to be alive, and every time I look at him I get so sad that I can't love him the way I want to, but-- I _do_ love him, and I'm afraid if I choose to live it won't feel worth it this time."

"I believe you," Roman says solemnly, and you find the strength to meet his eyes again. There are tears, flashing yellow as the streetlights turn on all around you. It's seven in the evening, then. He blinks, and the tears fall like twin meteors down his cheeks. "You're in love, I can see it on your face. Logan, I'm sorry."

"It's alright," you say. Roman shakes his head.

"It's not. But you're going to live anyway, right?"

He sounds frightened.

"I don't know," you say. You feel lost, like that moment twenty minutes after setting off into a blizzard when the cold has managed to find your eyelids (but only your eyelids), when you want to stop walking because everything around you is the same featureless, joyless _white_.

"Live," Roman says, reaching out and cupping your face. His mittens are soft like the fog you breathe out, but his voice is sharp with panic. "Logan, promise me, you have to live. You make me glad to be alive."

The obstruction in your lungs recedes enough at that for you to take one last deep breath, and you let it out as a slow sigh, savouring what you know will probably be the last clear breath you ever take while still in love. And then the blockage slides back into place, because no matter how mutual your friendship with Roman is, he will never be able to love you in the right way to satisfy the flowers.

So it is best to take them out. Perhaps things will be better, then, when you can appreciate what _is_ possible without longing for what isn't.

* * *

When you cough up the first petal a few weeks later, it is yellow. You tell Roman, and he blows his nose very loudly into a tissue (he's had a cold for a few days).

"Oh, yours are yellow? Mine were--"

"They were red," you say, and he looks at you incredulously as he tosses his tissue in the general direction of a trash can. "Before the surgery, mine were red."

"They changed?" he says. You point at the tissue behind him (it landed on the floor) and he turns, letting out a frustrated sigh when he sees it. "When are you gonna get them taken out?"

It's your turn to sigh. It sets off a coughing fit, and when you finally manage to get your breathing back under control, there are at least ten petals on the floor. Roman helps you gather them up, and then clears his throat dramatically.

"I can drive you to the hospital."

"Alright," you say, figuring it'll be a nice parallel with last time, since Patton drove you then. "My appointment is in a couple weeks. I'll send you the date once I get home."

"Alright," Roman says, smiling at you. He coughs into his elbow. "Ick. I need to get to Walgreens for some cough drops, I hate colds."

"I have some," you say, reaching into your jacket pocket for your honey flavoured halls. You hand over half of them, and Roman smiles brightly at you.

"Thanks!"

"It's no problem," you say, unable to look away from his smile, unable to stop wondering what it will feel like to only feel friendship when you see it.

* * *

"Logan," Roman says. His hair is shining in the sunlight, and he's standing in the middle of a bed of daffodils by the science building. "I have something to tell you."

You cough a petal into your elbow and take a step towards him.

"Alright," you say. Roman steps forwards and takes your hands-- it's cute how he's still wearing those mittens in the springtime-- and pulls you into the flowerbed with him.

"I love you," he says. "I'm in love with you, and I want to be with you."

"I want to be with you," you say, and he smiles, perfect, wonderful. He puts a mittened hand on the back of your neck and pulls you into a kiss, and you follow, shutting your eyes as your lips meet his. You feel him sigh, and it's perfect, you don't want to pull away.

He moves his hand from your neck to your face, and then takes your hands in both of his, resting his forehead against yours. Your eyes are still shut, because the moment is so fragile and perfect that you're afraid to break it by opening them. Again, you don't want to pull away.

"Everything is going to be perfect," Roman promises. He kisses you again, and then pulls back, letting go of your hands. Confused, you open your eyes to sunlight shining on the ceiling of your bedroom, white and cold and empty just like your heart will be in two days, because it was a dream. It was just another dream. You sigh. The fact that it was already springtime in the dream really should have tipped you off.

There's nothing you can do about it now. You get dressed in a haze and drive halfway into work before you remember classes are cancelled today. You drive back home and order a pizza, because you don't trust the petals to refrain from ruining it if you try to cook.

* * *

That evening, after dark, there's a knock at your door. You open it and there's Roman, pale and worried.

"Are you alright?" you say, stepping back to let him in, and he starts to take a deep breath and then coughs, hunching over and covering his mouth with his hand. He looks terrified.

"Logan," he mutters, and you take his elbow and pull him in out of the snow, shutting the door tight behind him.

"What is it?" you say, as he puts a hand on your shoulder, holding tight like you'll disappear, like you'll try to make him let go. "Are you alright?"

"Logan, I--"

He coughs again, and a petal lands on your shirt. It's yellow, and it takes you a moment to realise that it isn't one of yours. It isn't a rose petal.

It's a piece of a daffodil, and it came from Roman's mouth when he coughed just now.

What.

"I know this is a long shot," he says, voice scratchy. "But Logan, are you in love with me? Is it me?"

You gape at him for a moment.

"What?" you say, and he slumps. He tries to breathe in, and it rattles for a moment before stopping altogether, and he coughs again.

"I'm sorry," he says, and his voice is weak, quiet, from not getting enough air before trying to speak. "I don't-- I coughed the first one up a few minutes ago and I knew-- I'm so sorry, I don't know why I thought it was me, I shouldn't have told you, but-- I guess I just hoped..."

His whisper trails off into nothing as he runs out of breath, and then he's gasping, leaning on you heavily. You sit down on the floor and bring him with you, wrapping your arms around his waist and pulling him close. He's warm. His hands scrabble at your back, and his breath is loud and laboured in your ear. You think he's sobbing.

"Are you in love with me?" you ask quietly, and he nods, holding onto you for dear life.

"I'm sorry," he chokes out. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to, I don't know how it happened-- Logan-- Logan I think I'm dying, I _can't breathe_ , I'm sorry, can you-- can you drive me to the ER please?"

"You don't need to go to the ER," you say, holding him tight, holding him close. "Roman, you're going to be okay. We're both going to be okay, I love you, I'm in love with you."

Roman stops breathing. He goes still. It makes you panic, and you pull back to look at his face, to check if he's alright. His lips are parted, eyes wide. He takes a small, cautious breath, and his diaphragm expands smoothly; you feel it against your side, warm and strong.

"Logan?" he says, voice hushed, lifting his hands to touch your face, like he has to make sure you're real. You only get a moment of those soft mittens against your cheeks before he's tugging them off and touching your face with his bare hands this time. He clears his throat, and turns to the side to cough.

"It's you," you tell him, touching his face as well, because you need to reassure yourself that he's really here, that this isn't a dream. "It's you, Roman. Are you alright? Is it still hard to breathe?"

"It's easier, now," he says. "It still hurts, though, oh, it hurts, Logan."

"It hurts for me too," you say. "It will feel better soon. We will be alright."

"Do you want to kiss me?" Roman asks, biting his lip and looking down at the floor, avoiding your eyes. You drink in the sight of his face, cheeks red, and touch his lips with your thumb for just a moment. His eyes snap up to your face when you do so, and then he's flushing even pinker, eyes wide.

"Yes," you say simply. "I would like that."

He scoots closer, hesitating just inches away from you. He looks nervous.

"Do _you_ want to kiss me?" you ask. "You do not have to."

"I want to," he says. His tongue pokes out to wet his lips and you follow the movement with your eyes. You swallow. "I'm just nervous this isn't real. Usually the dream ends once I kiss you."

"So do mine," you say. "But if this is a dream, I should be able to fly."

Feeling a little silly, you put all your willpower into rising off the ground, just in case. It does not happen.

"I don't think I'm dreaming after all," Roman says, eyes searching your face. You lean closer to him, and smile.

"Neither am I," you say. "I feel like I'm flying anyway, though."

Roman gasps, and then he kisses you. It is soft, and sweet, and you do not close your eyes. Neither does he. It's a short kiss, and once both of you have taken a deep breath, and let it sink in that this must be real, Roman grins.

"Shakespeare has nothing on you," he says. "But you know, we would have been fine without this."

You nod.

"We would have," you say.

You wouldn't have, and you see in his eyes that he wouldn't have either. It's alright. You have each other now.

* * *

You call the hospital to cancel your surgery. The surgeon (a former student who had one class with you and decided he was your adopted son, basically) calls your personal phone twenty minutes later, afraid that you've decided to die.

"Logan, you know you're the best professor I ever had, right? What I mean is-- I think you should reconsider your decision to cancel the procedure. I know they didn't get it right the first time, but that's a very rare outcome. The chances that I'll miss anything are slim to none--"

"Virgil, why would I remove my ability to love when the person I am in love with loves me back?"

There's a moment of silence on the other end of the phone, and then a sigh of relief.

"That's-- Okay, I should've known that you, of all people, wouldn't just decide to die. Sorry to bother you, Professor. And congratulations."

You smile.

"You don't bother me, Virgil. While you're here, though, I have a question. Have you heard of someone's, um, flowers coming back years after the surgery?"

"Hm," Virgil says. "Well, usually relapses happen within about eighteen months of the surgery, if they're going to, since anything left behind grows back pretty quickly as a rule. I mean, there've been a few times, like if someone gets the surgery before they've matured then the flowers can come back much later than you'd usually expect since there's a totally different procedure for adolescents, but it almost never happens, since usually they don't start growing in the first place until puberty is over. Why do you ask?"

"Oh, I was just wondering," you say. "Thanks, Virgil."

* * *

Roman stays the night. It wasn't planned, but after you hang up the phone and help him onto your couch, it's easy to start talking to him, and by the time the conversation begins to die and he's ready to head out, he's also yawned at least five times.

"It's dangerous to drive drowsy, you know," you say, quoting a flyer that's on almost every bulletin board across campus.

"You're right," Roman says with another yawn. "I don't suppose I could trouble you for--" he breaks off to yawn again, and you roll your eyes.

"You can sleep here. Besides, my flowers will only go away if I'm convinced you love me, so you should stay just to be on the safe side."

Roman laughs at you.

"Hey Logan, if you were a pirate--" he yawns again, and this time you yawn too-- "would you want your parrot on this shoulder--" he taps the shoulder closest to him, and then reaches around your back to tap the other-- "or this one?"

He leaves his arm around your shoulders, and you clear your throat. Your face is turning red.

"Uh," you say, and then you start coughing, because of _course_ you do. More petals come out, but you actually feel better afterwards, like the coughing is helping you clear out your lungs. It's still tough to breathe, but it's just a little easier than before. And that feels really good.

You show Roman to your bedroom and lend him pajamas. He's _adorable_ in them. You're smitten.

He reaches for your hand under the covers, and you turn over onto your side to face him. He's smiling. You pull him close.

* * *

In the morning, you wake up alone. You stare up at the ceiling for a moment, unwilling to check the floor for Roman's clothes, unwilling to confront the fact that it was yet another dream, but then your bedroom door opens, and there's Roman with a tray.

"Oh!" he says. "You're awake, hello! I made breakfast!"

Your open-mouthed shock slowly morphs into a smile as he places the tray in your lap and then, clearing his throat, sets down a slip of paper on the tray as well, between the two plates.

You look up at him, curious, and he's blushing.

"Um, I wrote a poem while I was waiting for the frittata. I got bored."

You pick up the slip of paper as Roman climbs back into the bed and situates himself beside you. You read the poem.

_Shall I compare thee to an autumn morn',_  
_With eddied leaves and whirlwinds in the street?_  
_Shall I compare the worst pain ever born,_  
_To golden flowers growing, indiscreet?_

_The yellow of your speech is just as bright_  
_as hand-sized leaves of maple holding dew._  
_I know that autumn turns the world to white,_  
_yet I don't mind it since it showed me you._

_Your heart must glow, a lantern in a storm,_  
_to guide me through the blowing waves of sleet._  
_You led me home, and then, til I was warm,_  
_performed a task that autumn can't repeat._

_Like you, this fall leaves flowers in its wake,_  
_but unlike fall, you soothe the blooming ache._

"Oh," you say. Roman is completely still beside you. You have no idea how to react. No one has ever done something like this for you before.

"Is it-- is it too much?" Roman croaks, voice rough and uncertain.

"No," you say. "I-- Roman, this is beautiful."

"You like it?" he says, hopeful and sweet. You finally look over at him to see tears in his eyes and a gleaming smile on his face.

"Of course I like it," you say. "Of course I love it. It's-- it's for me?"

"Yes!" Roman says. "Who else would it be for, Logan?"

"I don't know," you say, rolling your eyes and carefully setting the poem on your nightstand. "William Shakespeare?"

Roman scoffs, and opens his mouth to protest. He's interrupted by your stomach growling.

"You're lucky I'm just as hungry as you," he says, taking one of the plates from the tray. You pass him a fork. "Otherwise I'd explain to you exactly how ridiculous you're being."

"Alright," you say. "You can tell me all about it after we eat."

You take a bite, and springtime does a pirouette on your tongue.

"Roman, this is delicious," you say. You take another bite.

"It was easy to make," he says, and you can tell he's about to get into a groove of humbling himself, so you cut him off.

"Knowing it wasn't hard for you doesn't make me less impressed," you say, and then you get to watch Roman blush again, which is nice. "You made me compliment you with my mouth full, that's a feat in and of itself."

Roman chuckles, and then he starts coughing. You lift his plate out of the way as he coughs a few petals up onto the bedspread and then makes a face.

"I'll get those," you say, passing his plate back over.

"You don't have to," he protests.

"I want to." You get a tissue and start picking up the petals. "You got up and made breakfast, it's the least I can do."

"Alright," he says.

After breakfast, you take a photo of the poem with your phone and set it as your background. Roman turns bright red when he notices this, and you take his hand.

"I really do love you," you tell him, turning your phone off and setting it aside.

"I love you too," he says.

You smile.

* * *

Your daily coughing fits continue even years after the petals run out, along with Roman's biweekly coughing fits, but despite that, things are good. You may never stop feeling short of breath, but it's alright when it's Roman's fault. You really don't mind.

You don't think he minds, either.

**Author's Note:**

> comment if this made ur heart go boom boom boom! (or bloom bloom bloom hehe)
> 
> also i wrote the poem myself, it's a sonnet
> 
> (keep in mind when you're commenting that second person is a central part of my writing style, and my writing is something very personal to me. if you wouldn't say it about someone's beloved dog to their face, please don't say it about second person in your comment.)


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